Of Liniment and Pride
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: She knows the cold weather is making Erik suffer, and she also knows her husband's pride refuses to let him admit that, and so Christine must take matters into her own hands.


**A/N:** **Written for a prompt from spooky-mormon-hell-dream who requested a fic where Christine tries to soothe Erik's aches and pains without wounding his pride.**

* * *

He does not mention that he is in pain, but she recognises it in every line of him – the stiffness in his movement, the tightness in his jaw. She catches him flexing his fingers, massaging them, and he does not breathe a word that he is suffering. It is to be expected, really, that the damp would trouble him, but if he would _just say something_ then she could help him.

Oh, she could help him as it is, but his pride is a delicate thing and that would upset him. He does not want her to see that there is any ache in his bones, would prefer to pretend that he is impervious to such things. (A voice whispers, softly, in her mind, _he does not want to think that he is getting old_ and she knows it, and it makes her heart ache. He is so much older than her, so much older and more broken, and their time can only ever be short, but she must not let herself think of that.)

Her father suffered the same in later years, with stiffness in his fingers from the damp. When they were too sore he could not play, and though he was ill by then anyway it broke her heart to see him so. She used to take the bottle of liniment and carefully massage it into his knuckles until the pain went away, and he would smile softly at her, his eyes sad, and play for a little while until he was too tired to go on.

Erik has his own stock of liniment, she knows. When she banged her elbow he rubbed it in to ease the pain, his brow furrowed at her and fingers so careful. If he would only use it on himself, things might not be so difficult.

She knows it is bad when he chooses to read instead of compose, and even then his concentration wanders. She watches him, the way his gaze flickers over to the organ almost without his realising it, and knows that she has to do something to help him, to at least make it a little easier for him.

"Erik, darling," she says, as if there is nothing at all out of ordinary, as if she thinks him perfectly well, "I would like you to come for a walk with me. It has been so long since we went for a walk together." In truth it has only been three days, but still. He usually likes to go for walks more often than that.

The words hang in the air, and she can feel his gaze boring into her neck though she does not lift her eyes from her sewing to check. If they go for a walk, she can take his hand and rub his knuckles with him hardly realising it, and that will be some pain eased.

Then again, climbing the stairs to go for a walk might only make his legs worse, if they are troubling him, and based on the way he keeps shifting his knees they surely are. She considers, and then changes her mind. "Actually, I'm feeling rather tired this evening. I think I will lie down for a little while, if you wish to join me." That is bound to get his attention. He always worries for her when he thinks she is particularly tired.

"Christine." There it is, the worry she has come to expect, and the very way he says her name is a question. "You are acting rather strange this evening." He tries to keep as much of the concern as he can from his voice, but she knows what to listen for by now.

It is best to feign innocence in such matters. "Am I?"

"Decidedly." She can hear the frown in his voice, and her lips twitch.

"Well," she sets her sewing down, and stands, cracking out her back, "perhaps I simply want to be close to my husband. Surely you know how much I like lying down with you." She means it perfectly platonically, nothing of _that sort_ at all. Truly she loves being close to him, wrapped in his arms or him wrapped in hers. It is all she wants, really, to hold him and have him be well.

Out of the side of her eye, though, she sees a flush creep into his cheeks. "You do?"

"Of course." She smiles at him, eases the book from his hand, and curls her fingers around his. They are cold, and she bows her head, kisses them, then slips into his lap. He shifts beneath her, and she leans back into his chest. "Your fingers are very cold this evening, my love." They are like ice between hers, and she rubs them between her hands. It is a sign of poor circulation, she knows, to have fingers so cold. The Professor's were the same, and she swallows to numb the sudden flicker of worry in her heart, tells herself that already his fingers are a little warmer than they were a moment ago.

"I had not noticed." She can hear the lie in his voice a mile away, so used is she to him now. Carefully she tilts her head, presses a kiss to his throat.

"I'll warm them for you, my love."

His voice is soft when he says, "I rather think I might enjoy that."

They spend a long time in silence, her gently massaging each finger of the hand she hold, warming each knuckle carefully and paying special attention to each one. His knuckles are very precious, and she shudders to think how things might be if the day ever came that they got too stiff to play his music ever again. She pushes the thoughts away, kisses each fingertip as she moves on to work on the next finger. If she could keep him warm she would, would make certain that he would never feel the cold or a moment's pain again. As she works, he hums a tune that she has heard him play only in quiet moments when he thinks her asleep, and it makes her smile. Only when she is wholly satisfied that his fingers are warm and limber does she kiss his palm and set his hand down, taking the other one gently. "That's better," he murmurs, sounding as if he is half-asleep, and her heart softens, his knuckles soft beneath her lips when she presses a kiss to them.

"I thought the cold did not trouble you."

Hardly are the words out of her mouth when he chuckles. "They may have been slightly stiff."

She cannot keep the smile from her lips. "I suspected as much. And your knees? Your ribs?" His knees and ribs have taken too many bangs in the past, and she knows that he is surely suffering with them too. He really is far too proud for his own good.

"They may be a little sore also."

"In that case," she strokes her fingers gently over his, "when I have this hand finished, perhaps you will join me in bed. The liniment ought to be a help."

He stays silent a moment, and then sighs. "Perhaps it will."

* * *

It is a long time later, lying wrapped together in bed, when Erik takes her hand and squeezes it. "Thank you," he murmurs. "I feel much better." She smiles down at him, at his heavy-lidded eyes and the faint smile gracing his lips, and bows her head, presses a soft kiss to his cool forehead.

"It is my pleasure." The sharp smell of the liniment will be on her fingers all night, but that is a small price to pay for bringing him some comfort. "Does this mean, that the next time your joints are troubling you, you will allow me to help?"

He sighs, and shifts, making a soft little noise in his throat that melts her heart as he nuzzles into her breasts. "I rather think it does, my love."

She reaches out carefully, turns down the oil lamp, and then settles herself more fully beside him, wrapping one arm around his chest and drawing him closer. "Well then. That is a comfort." With infinite gentleness she kisses his hair, and sighs, and cuddled together they drift into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
